Much Of Your Pain Is The Bitter

Defeat, My Defeat, My Deathless Courage, You And I Shall Laugh Together With The Storm, And Together We Shall Dig Graves For All That Die In Us, And We Shall Stand In The Sun With A Will, And We Shall Be Dangerous

Is Not The Cup That Holds Your Wine The Very Cup That Was Burned In The Potter’s Oven?

And That Which Sings And Contemplates In You Is Still Dwelling Within The Bounds Of That First Moment Which Scattered The Stars Into Space.

Love Descends Upon Our Souls By The Will Of God And Not By The Demand Or The Plea Of The Individual.

Verily All Things Move Within Your Being In Constant Half Embrace, The Desired And The Dreaded, The Repugnant And The Cherished, The Pursued And That Which You Would Escape.